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Rabbi Menachem Creditor
If we read the five books of Torah as one great arc, Genesis is the family story. Exodus begins the national story, and from there through Deuteronomy, Moses stands at the center: prophet, teacher, intercessor, and, alongside God, the central figure of Israel’s journey. By the time we reach this week’s portions, that journey is changing. The wilderness generation is giving way. The old leadership begins to disappear.
The Torah tells us, almost starkly, “The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died and was buried there. (Num. 20:1)” Miriam, sister of Moses and Aaron, prophet, singer, guardian of the infant Moses, leader of Israelite women, dies. And then, immediately, the next verse says, “The community was without water, and they joined against Moses and Aaron.”
There is no pause. No eulogy. No recorded mourning. No glimpse into Moses’s heart or Aaron’s grief. The people are thirsty, and they gather against their leaders. The Hebrew verb suggests that the community almost becomes an action. They gathered against Moses and Aaron. Their fear takes the shape of collective pressure.
The rabbis noticed the abruptness. They imagined that, as long as Miriam lived, a miraculous well followed the people through the wilderness. With Miriam gone, the well disappeared. This midrash may not be explicit in the biblical text, but it reveals a deep, psychological truth: Miriam provided a sustaining presence whose power was only fully recognized once she was gone.
That is often how love works. Someone steadies us, nourishes us, makes life possible in ways we barely name. Their presence becomes so constant that we do not notice how much we depend on it. Then, in their absence, the water is gone. Only then do we understand what they carried for us.
Moses, too, may be living that truth. Soon after the death of Miriam, God tells him to take the staff and speak to the rock, but Moses strikes it instead. It is worth considering whether this was not simply disobedience, but grief. Moses has just lost his sister. The people are panicking. Their protest linguistically echoes earlier rebellions, including Korach’s challenge just one Parasha before. Perhaps this time, Moses, overwhelmed and bereaved, simply cannot respond with calm.
Transitions are not only historical. They are personal. A generation changes when beloved people leave us. Leadership changes. Families change. The world changes. Even the familiar path through wilderness suddenly feels different beneath our feet.
And so tradition offers us a blessing hidden inside this textual exploration of grief: Do not wait. Do not wait until absence teaches you the value of presence. Tell your loved ones now what they mean. Name “the water” they bring. Give thanks while they can hear it.
May we be blessed to recognize the sustaining wells in our lives, and to cherish the beloveds whose presence keeps us alive.